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That’ll offer questionable holding.

And we’re off.

Still downwind.

The sun rises on a glassy Mediterranean.

We hope that the beaches are cleaner on the inside.

The bridge opens just for us.

All alone.

It’s an island of 2 halves.

Going underground, underground.

These birds are not designed for flying.

We sail for the joy of sailing,

The hotels are dark.

Wall to wall blue.

Ruffian is calm. Iain is stressed.

These birds are designed for filtering.

Palm trees and blue water. Who needs the Caribbean?

Another day, another sunset.

The salt pans were once big business.

To think this is how our table salt is made.

Cliffs and coves.

The good luck tree. Doesn’t luck leak out of upside-down horseshoes?

Phew. That’s the end of the scrambling.

What’s down there?

Looks like Larry has a buddy.

Larry is worried about burning his soft white fur in the sun.

Mile upon mile of strawberries, sitting under plastic.

Wild flower meadows were pretty unexpected.

No wonder the speed log stopped working with these critters inside it.

A day of chores. A box of spares.

We’re given our very own air display.

They come back again and again.

Iain gets creative making some snazzy brackets.

Iain can hear poor Ruffian scream as he drills a (2mm) hole.

That’s the sign of a good day’s work.

The sea deposits it content on the lee shore.

Our very own, brand new dock.

Not every day is hot sunny and full of fun.